Late to the Party A Sherlolly Pillow Fight
by Maejones
Summary: Molly and Sherlock stop by John and Mary's hotel room before the wedding.


"Oh my word, this is gorgeous, Sherlock!" Molly sighed as she looked around the Royal suite at the infamous Goring Hotel near Buckingham Palace. "This must have cost you a fortune."

Sherlock shrugged and smoothed his hands over the lapels of his tuxedo. "A small fortune, yes, but I am not in arrears. Mycroft paid for it."

For a moment, she just admired him in his formal getup. Only Sherlock Holmes could get away with wearing tails in this day and age. Her heart fluttered. He looked godawfully perfect, actually, the quintessential English groom. It was just too bad he wasn't her groom instead of John Watson's best man.

She snapped out of her reverie and blinked at him. "I-I did not think Mycroft admired John and Mary enough to give them such a generous wedding gift."

"Well, he does not know about it actually," he murmured with a self-satisfied smirk, "my brother has unwittingly paid for this through one of his operational expense accounts. I expect he'll find out eventually but not soon enough to reverse the charges."

Molly wrinkled her nose. "You two, honestly!"

He cracked a broader smile. "Do not feel bad for Mycroft. He is indebted to me."

Molly giggled, twirled in her yellow dress and indulged herself in a micro-daydream. She envisioned for the briefest of moments that she and Sherlock were retiring for the evening in the opulent suite after exchanging vows. Then she gave herself a shake. Her face flushed with heat. Her stomach felt like someone dropped a rock down her throat. She choked up a bit. She didn't know why she should feel so melancholy. At least she had found someone after pining away for so long for an indifferent bloke and she was to be married . . . to Tom. A dream come true (or so she told herself every night after he turned off the bedside lamp and she stared up at the ceiling for a good hour).

"Well, shall we get to _decorating_?" Sherlock interrupted her self-pity party.

"Oh," Molly gulped, "erm, y-yes!"

She had begged the reluctant detective to let her decorate John and Mary's room. She had wanted to contribute to their special day rather than just consuming their food and spirits at the wedding. She grabbed a bouquet of white and yellow roses and slapped them in his hands.

"Spread these around."

His brow contorted. "What? Where?"

She winked at him. "Anywhere they might make love. The sofa, the bathroom, the bedroom . . ."

Sherlock sneered down at the flowers. Then he twisted a bunch of petals from on of the buds and headed towards the piano. Molly snickered. He held up a finger as he walked away.

"You said anywhere."

She laughed aloud then went about her own business. She had a whole bag of goodies. She put cheap, sweet champagne in the little fridge (a much better indulgence than the expensive dry shite that burned one's glands out on the way down) and arranged a small plate of truffles from her favorite chocolate shop. She setup candles and sticks of aromatic incense around the bath along with some lavender soap she knew would froth up like whipped cream. Next to the bed she left some novelty furry handcuffs and a pink riding crop. The whole while, Sherlock contented himself meticulously spreading the petals.

Then, in a fit of silliness, she stripped down to her white slip and jumped on the bed. Sherlock walked into the bedroom just as she was gleefully destroying its composure. The expression on his face was a combination of shock and horrified confusion.

"Wh-Wh-What are y-you doing?" He stuttered.

"It's tradition!" She panted and blew a lock of hair from her face. "You have to make it look like someone else beat them to it."

His head tilted in bewilderment. "But then they will think that we . . . you know."

She picked up a pillow and threw it at him. "Nah, it's just for a lark, Sherlock Holmes! Mary will get it."

He caught the pillow and shook his head as he returned it to the bed. A fit of lunacy overcame Molly and she whacked him with the other pillow. He glowered at her as he smoothed back his hair.

"Do not do-"

She whacked him again and hopped back out of the way. Then, next thing she knew, he had spun out of his suit jacket and they were engaged in a full on pillow fight. Molly found herself giggling like a child; delighted that she seemed to be getting the better of him (though he appeared to be going easy on her). At one point, she had the advantage and pummeled his bent frame but then he lunged onto the bed and grabbed her ankle. With a quick jerk of his hand she felt her equilibrium shift, her stomach lurch and she fell to the bed with a shriek and a bounce. In a heartbeat, his legs tangled with hers and he pinned her with his considerable weight.

That was how she found herself under Sherlock Holmes, gazing up at his flushed cheeks and ruffled curls. His pupils blew wide as he scanned her face. He yanked the pillow from her hands and tossed it aside. She glanced down shyly at his chest. His cream silk tie hung askew. A couple buttons had popped open. His heavy breaths seemed to lift his whole frame. She swallowed, suddenly terrified to look him in the eye.

"You must know you cannot possibly win against me," his deep voice vibrated through her whole being.

"You assume I want to win."

"Don't you?"

She drew in a shaky little breath, peered up at him and shook her head. His eyes were nearly black with just a rim of his lovely blue-green irises visible. He shifted his weight and she felt . . . she felt his eagerness. Her lips parted in shock.

"Bloody hell, y-you're . . . you're keen."

His nostril twitched. He pressed his lips together in thought but then nodded once.

"Yes, I am."

"F-For me?"

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, of course for you. There is no one else here."

Sherlock shuffled off her and stood up. He helped her off the bed.

"Forgive me, Molly. We should go. We will have a discussion later about my . . . r _eaction_ to you. Now is probably not the time. We have a wedding to attend."

Molly shook her head. "Yeah, right. Yes, you are one-hundred percent correct."

No matter what came of their discussion, Molly already knew she had spent too long deluding herself and this encounter had proved it. She wasn't going to marry Tom. Maybe nothing would come of her talk with Sherlock, but she knew one thing, she couldn't settle for less. Not anymore.


End file.
